A Ranger's Temptation
by Gypsie Rose
Summary: While waiting for the hobbits in Bree, Aragorn finds someone to help him pass the lonely nights without Arwen. But what does this woman want from him? Aragorn / OC. **COMPLETE!**
1. Chapter 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was originally written as an NC-17 story. It was mostly a lark written to blow off steam during a stressful time and give Gypsie a chance to write some Aragorn smut! It disappeared before being finished during the NC-17 purge last fall. We decided to rework it as an R-rated story, tighten it up and provide an ending.  
  
A RANGER'S TEMPTATION  
by Gypsie Rose (gypsierose3000@yahoo.com)  
  
It was a warm evening in September, and the taproom at the Prancing Pony was crowded with customers. Men and hobbits constantly called for pints of ale, which meant a busy night for Meredith, the barmaid. She wove her way dexterously between the benches, carrying four mugs at once, and skillfully avoiding the pawing hands reaching out to pat her shapely bottom.  
  
"Looking's free--touching isn't!" she called out laughingly. Though, to one man with keen eyes who had studied her for many nights, her smile seemed slightly forced, her laughter slightly false.  
  
Aragorn, fascinated by the dichotomy of her demeanor, watched her move among the crowd from his customary remote corner of the inn. He let his eyes drift away from her face, from the mask of a smile she wore, to follow her lengthy auburn braid as it bounced from curvy hip to hip along her slender waistline. He half-smiled in appreciation, puffing leisurely at his long, thin pipe.  
  
He watched her turn, and then realized while she was still nearly across the room that she was making her way toward him with the last mug of ale. He rested his head against the wall, drawing most of his face into shadow, but still, she approached. *Fearless*, he thought, *or reckless. Either way, an interesting enigma.*  
  
When she reached the table's edge, she leaned over--very deliberately, he noticed--and set the full, frothy mug on the table in front of him, affording him a view of her ample cleavage as she did so. One did not need keen eyes to gather the implications of *that*. At the sight, an unwelcome jolt ran down Aragorn's spine and settled in his groin, but he kept his face steady as he cocked his head and gazed up at her from under his rough brown hood.  
  
"I have not ordered this," he said evenly, his voice nearly a whisper.  
  
Meredith smiled--the fake, practiced grin the Ranger had seen so many nights as she'd handed ale to so many others. "It's on the house. You are the Ranger they call Strider, aren't you? Master Butterbur told me to take you a pint, seeing as you're a friend."  
  
Aragorn grunted in approval, though he had never known Butterbur to hand out free ale to anyone, for any reason. The girl was lying, he conjectured, and he wondered what had prompted her to make him this offer tonight, when he had been staying at the inn for nearly a week already.  
  
He gripped the mug and forced his eyes away from the smooth, white roundness of her breasts. He knew he had but to place a coin in the slot of her cleavage to make her his--for the evening, at least. He sighed inwardly. Perhaps she was trolling, and though he was wary, he felt a strong inclination to take her bait. It had been so long since he'd lain with a woman--too long. And yet, even "too long" was not long enough, for he'd sworn his love to Arwen Evenstar--daughter of Elrond, his own adopted father--when he was barely even old enough to call himself a man. And since then, he'd struggled to stay true...and had mostly succeeded.  
  
The barmaid was still leaning into him, her bosom radiant in the moonlight that filtered in the window from behind. He would have expected her to be gone by now, but there was an odd air of determination about her as she lingered.  
  
"Will that be all, Mister Strider?" she questioned in a low, confidential voice.  
  
"Stay a moment," replied Aragorn, inwardly cursing his own weakness and yet unwilling to deprive himself of her company so soon.  
  
Meredith smiled again and sat down opposite him. *Fearless*, his mind registered again. Surely she knew his reputation, saw by his outward appearance that he was a man accustomed to wilderness and wildness. And still, she was fishing. He studied her face, his eyes taking in every feature, from her white forehead to her deep emerald eyes to her pink lips stretched into a come-hither smile.   
  
Well, since she was here, he could do a little fishing of his own--for information. He had been at the inn many days without seeing the hobbits Gandalf had set him to look for, and he was beginning to fear that they had already come and gone, despite Barliman's vague assurances to the contrary.  
  
He cleared his throat. "Tell me, Mistress...."  
  
"Meredith," she supplied.  
  
He knew her name. Everyone in the Pony knew it--some, he imagined, better than others. "Meredith...," he continued, "have you seen any strange hobbits here lately? I am expecting some friends from the Shire."  
  
Meredith shook her head, but her darting eyes betrayed her racing thoughts. Aragorn wasn't sure exactly upon what she was thinking, but he was certain that her approach had been deliberate--perhaps more of a fishing expedition than he'd thought at first. And it seemed that the same subject which concerned him was also of interest to her. Certainly, it bore investigating. Though he could hear an inner voice telling him there was more to his curiosity about Meredith than discovering her curiosity about him, he chose to ignore it for the moment...or to use it to his own gain.  
  
Aragorn fondled the coin he'd slipped from his beltpouch, sliding its smooth coolness around his fingers, thinking of the promises it held. It could lead him to the answers his brain sought. It could lead him to...relief from a number of troubles. He began to reach for Meredith, but his hand barely cleared the table's surface when he heard Butterbur bellow at the barmaid to return to her duties.  
  
"I must go," she said with a practiced, sad smile, her emerald eyes gleaming as she touched his shoulder ever-so-gently. "But should you need...another drink, beckon, and I'll be glad to serve you." She slid from the seat and hurried back to the bar.  
  
Aragorn laid the coin down on the table and took up his mug of ale with a shaking hand. It was as well that Meredith had been called away, he thought, for it had removed the temptation from him. And yet, the temptation was not truly removed, for he could still see her easy grace, could still imagine those legs wrapped around his waist, the firmness of those breasts under his hands.... And then there was that little, unsolved matter of why she had been so interested in him in the first place. He tried to push that thought ahead of all the others that crowded his brain, but found it more than difficult.  
  
*By Elbereth*, he thought, *What a fool I am! To have the love of a woman as beautiful and true as Arwen, and yet to wish myself in the arms of a barroom trollop. And a trollop with an unhealthy curiosity, at that. Have I grown so base that I cannot resist the lure of a whore, selling her wares to the best bidder?* He drained his ale in one draught, and then rested his forehead on his hands so that he could focus the intensity of his gaze on the table.  
  
The coin glinted plainly in his view. He growled and pounded the wood with his fists, causing empty mug and coin to jump and clang together--chiming the doom of his treasured morality as he scanned the room for Meredith's comely form.  
  
There had been too many nights alone, too much waiting for the day when he and Arwen could finally be together--a day which seemed, at times, as if it might never come. Besides, Arwen was many miles away at Rivendell, and the fire inside Aragorn needed to be quenched here, tonight. *Oh Arwen, forgive me, but the ache is unbearable tonight*, Aragorn thought as he caught Meredith's eye and beckoned her to him. *And there are dangers best discovered and quelled as quickly as possible*, he added to himself as an afterthought.  
  
In an instant, she was standing before him again, so close that he could smell a faint whiff of her scent.  
  
"Yes, Sir Strider?" Her voice again was low, a confidential whisper, beckoning him to the one thing he knew in his heart he should not do. She leaned forth, her long braid slipping over her shoulder and onto his hand.  
  
He grasped the silken, reddish rope of her hair, bringing the long braid to his cheek, and then to his nose, taking in the scent of woodsmoke and roses that mingled in her fragrant hair.  
  
Meredith let him toy with the braid, her amusement with him clearly evident in her eyes. She smiled, and leaned into him, nearly thrusting her bosom to his downturned face. "Sir?" Her question held an insistance he couldn't help but understand.  
  
Aragorn released the braid, letting it slide away from his arm and onto the table. He grabbed the coin from the table and eased it into her cleavage. "Third room upstairs on the right." To his shame, his voice cracked when he said it. "When your duties are complete here."  
  
"Aye, Sir."  
  
Aragorn waited for Meredith to return to the bar before he slipped from his table and slunk up the darkened stairs to his room, his mind losing the battle wih his body between a struggle for information and a desire for something far more obvious.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED 


	2. Chapter 2

A RANGER'S TEMPTATION, Chapter 2  
  
by Gypsie Rose (gypsierose3000@yahoo.com)  
  
Aragorn heard the firm, light knock at his door just at the instant he'd convinced himself that Meredith was not coming up to him--that she'd simply taken his coin as a very generous tip and had left him to ponder both her mysterious interest in him, and his in her. He had removed his leather greatcoat and boots already, preparing himself for bed, at least, if she should not come. But now, alone in his shirtsleeves and breeches, he realized she had arrived, and all his second-guessing had come to naught.  
  
"Come in," he called in a soft, hoarse voice, giving in to the insistence in Meredith's knock.  
  
The door creaked open. From his supine position propped languidly against the bed's headboard, Aragorn greeted his guest. For a fleeting moment, the Ranger felt as if he should rise in a lady's presence, but his mind registered that Meredith was no lady, and he endured this encounter only to gather information as to her interest in his affairs. Instead, he settled for a perfunctory nod in her direction.  
  
For her part, she had at least removed the stew-stained apron she wore in the barroom below, though her exquisite auburn hair was still confined to its braid. She shone soft and white against the dark silhouette of the open door.  
  
"Close the door," he ordered in a gruff voice, annoyed at the betrayal of his own hungry body as the heat began rising in him at the sight of her.  
  
Meredith did so. Aragorn stood and pulled off his shirt in a single, fluid motion, feeling the sudden chill of the room against his exposed skin. As he tossed the travel-soiled garment aside, he was aware of the gooseflesh along his arms and torso, which made the little hairs there stand on end. And in the far corners of his mind, he told himself firmly that it was only the cold.  
  
"What, Sir, would you have me do?" Meredith asked him, her voice wrapping around him, around the annals of his mind, like rich, suffocating silk.  
  
He stood firm there, half-undressed, and raised a dark eyebrow to her in silent answer to the ageless question that hung between them. And she, as if on cue, nodded and slipped silently to him.  
  
Her eyes were the green of the deep wood in springtime, rimmed with long lashes surprisingly dark when contrasted with the wisps of auburn hair, which, loosed from her braid, floated about her face. Her skin was perfect in its alabaster purity, save for a few faint freckles across the bridge of her nose.  
  
In the far reaches of his mind, Aragorn heard the voice that reminded him that this woman had come specifically *to him*, that she had wanted something specifically *from him* that had gone beyond where a whore's interest should. And yet, that voice was fading behind the insistent pulse beating in his ears.  
  
He reached for her suddenly, grasping her face in his calloused hands. He drew her to him, the stubble on his cheeks scraping roughly against her smooth skin, as he covered her mouth with his in a wanton kiss.  
  
Aragorn released Meredith only when he felt her struggle and push away from him. She stumbled back against the door, panting, and muttered, "Sir, 'tis against.... My...kind...do not kiss so."  
  
He cocked his head slightly to the right, watching her. Eyes widened, pupils large and dark, nostrils flared--this girl, he realized, was afraid. She would tell him nothing about herself if she feared him, he conjectured. She would give up nothing if he threatened her, however unintentionally. He very deliberately closed his eyes, then opened them slowly, focusing all the power of his gaze on her. And then he approached her as he would have a wounded animal, slowly, deliberately, so that she could see he meant her no harm. He brought his hand up to her face, and ran a calloused thumb over her lips.  
  
"No," he said simply. He tapped her on the lips and released her chin, retreating to the bed, lying back, with his hands behind his head. He would let her come to him. He gathered that she would do so, in time. After all, she plied her trade for money, and he had paid. And so, he watched her with a sidelong glance, and waited.  
  
And come she did, though it took her several long moments, made longer to the Ranger by the insistent heat that had settled in his groin. She approached the bed cautiously, timidly sitting on its edge, placing herself with her back to him, yet easily within his grasp. He did not, however, reach for her--though to his shame, he wished to.  
  
"I am sorry to have contradicted you, Sir," she said with what was clearly a practiced meekness, underlaid with a tremulous quality that only one as observant as Aragorn would have heard. She was still afraid, though he wondered now if she feared him, or if the fear ran deeper still--a hidden menace of which he was unaware.  
  
"The fault is mine," he said softly, to her back. "No woman deserves to be...treated poorly--no matter what her profession."  
  
Meredith turned abruptly to him, her mouth agape. Her impervious whore's mask had slipped, he mused. She was apparently unaccustomed to basic kindness from the men she serviced. And perhaps, Aragorn thought, this was the angle he needed to discover the reason behind her curiosity in him.  
  
"You have lovely eyes," he said then, gently, focusing his own gaze in an intent line with hers. "Like the trees in a deep wood." He patted the bedsheets next to where he'd stretched his tall form. "Lie here, will you?"  
  
She nodded and stretched down beside him, her body turned halfway between him and the ceiling. Her smell was intoxicating: woodsmoke and roses and something else--a musky primalness that increased his heat, making him swallow hard against his anticipation, his forced delay.  
  
She put a hand out to trace the firm, sinewy muscles of his chest and stomach. He trembled slightly beneath her touch. He could feel the heat of her body, the curve of one breast pressing into his arm as she reached across to touch him. He closed his eyes and drew in a shuddering breath. This felt good, so good...  
  
He rolled over onto his side then, so that he could search her eyes directly. At such scrutiny, he could see that there were flecks of gold hidden in the green depths. The dancing firelight found further hints of gold in her auburn hair. He reached out with his hand, and--slowly, so as not to take her by surprise as he had done before--started to rub his hand over her shoulder, down her arm, then back up again. He slipped a finger into the neck of the loose white shirt which showed above her tightly-laced bodice, eased it down so that her shoulder was exposed, then bent forward and planted a kiss upon it.  
  
She let him kiss her this time--after all, it wasn't on the lips, wasn't the kind of kiss shared by lovers. He understood now, what boundaries to stay within. And he tugged at her bodice-strings with renewed vigor, loosening her breasts from their confines. The bodice fell away easily once he had the strings out. He cupped one firm, round breast in his hand.  
  
She smiled when he tore his gaze away from her breasts to read the expression on her face. It was, again, the trained smile of a whore. "Shall I take this off, Sir?"  
  
There was no turning back from what he'd begun without rousing her suspicions, Aragorn realized then. He had closed the contract his coin had bought when he had reached for this woman in lust, and now he had no choice but to see the event to its inevitable conclusion, if he wanted any hope of discovering her true intentions toward him. At least, that was what he repeated to himself in the silence of his mind as he nodded consent to Meredith's question.  
  
When she'd complied with her own suggestion, he drew her to him nearly immediately; he did not wish to see her, so much as to feel her, to touch her, to let his body satisfy its cravings without the reminder that this woman in his arms, in his bed, was not Arwen Evenstar. He felt her clutch at his back as he rolled her beneath him, felt her wrap her legs around his waist, encircling him in a lover's embrace. And as he sought to relieve the aching desire, he envisioned behind his closed eyes that these were Arwen's breasts he kissed, Arwen's hands at his abdomen, loosening the drawstring at his breeches' waist, slipping his pants down over his hips. He moaned as he imagined it was Arwen's thighs he parted, that it was Arwen who allowed him sweet entry, and in whom he would find even sweeter release.  
  
But this was not Arwen. Aragorn knew it, even as his body was rushing to make him forget. This was Meredith, a Prancing Pony barmaid who moonlighted as a whore. He had never yet lain so with Arwen, and at the rate he was going, he might never, still. He thrust hard, his body eager to quench its need, and then with a low growl and a shudder, he felt the sudden, desperate release from the physical ache he'd harbored for so long. He sqeezed his eyes closed, unwilling to open them to the realities of the evening.  
  
He fell forward, half of his weight on the bed and the other half on Meredith. She reached to brush his damp hair from his forehead. He started at her touch, rolling off her quickly. "Get out," he said hoarsely, his eyes open now, and wild. Suddenly he no longer wished to question her. He only wanted her gone as quickly as possible.  
  
The girl was staring at him with what seemed a look of complete surprise. Why, he wondered, was she unwilling to follow the simplest of commands?  
  
She was talking again now, a little worried, a little self-pitying, more than a little disappointed, all apparent in her voice. "Sir, you have me for the evening, if you--"  
  
"Go." He tried his best to make it plain to her without exploding in either the shame that rose behind his eyes like a headache or the rage he felt at her not simply leaving when she was told. He knew his voice was shaking, and only hoped she could not hear the tremulousness there. He turned his head away, stared at the soiled sheets.  
  
"Should you need me, Sir, my own chamber is at the end of the hall. I'm at your call all evening," she offered, her voice hopeful.  
  
*Your call.* He had called her, indeed--there was no denying that. "Please...go...." His voice broke when he said it. He could not look at her, now. He did not wish to confirm, at last, that this whore was not Arwen.  
  
He heard her close the door as she left, and only hoped that he'd started the weeping he was now unable to control after she'd already gone. He still lay in the bed, alone now, and nearly naked, his face pressed to the pillow, the scent of the whore and their illicit union still strong on him.  
  
*Curse me!* he swore in his head, *Curse me and my lack of self-control! I do not deserve a love such as Arwen's, for I cannot keep it...I give it away along with my flesh at the slightest provocation from a barroom whore!*  
  
And yet, even as he thought these words, a part of him remembered that Meredith had sought him out. She had been searching for something in him--unusual behavior for a whore. Certainly different than any whore he'd been accustomed to--certainly unlike any he'd lain with before...  
  
A new wave of shame overtook him then. He *had* been unfaithful before, had lain with loose women in rented inn chambers when the loneliness of life on the road away from his betrothed had proved too difficult to bear. But always he had kept those encounters perfunctory--had made sure they were no more than a release of his tensions along with his seed. And usually, the trollops seemed grateful that no more would be required of them for that evening.  
  
Meredith, though, had *wanted* to stay. The Ranger in Aragorn told him that her reluctance to leave could be a sign that she was dangerous, that there was more to her than there appeared to be--that she'd wanted something particularly *from him* that was more than just money. If nothing else, that alone warranted further investigating.  
  
He sat up and began to search about for his clothes, telling himself that the investigation was necessary, convincing himself that his need to find Meredith was on an informative level alone, that he didn't want simply to touch her beautiful auburn hair again or to gaze once more into her forest-green eyes.  
  
Arwen would forgive him a need to protect his secrecy--he was certain of that. 


	3. Chapter 3

A RANGER'S TEMPTATION, Chapter 3  
  
by Gypsie Rose (gypsierose3000@yahoo.com)  
  
Aragorn waited only a moment in the darkened hallway after knocking before he started to turn away, thinking better of questioning the whore after all. As he started down the hall, he heard the door creak open.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
He cursed silently under his breath, and turned back to Meredith, who was standing in the doorway. The candlelight behind her cast her shapely body in silhouette beneath her diaphanous white dressing gown; her auburn braid snaked darkly over her shoulder and between her breasts. He felt his face grow hot with renewed shame, and was inwardly thankful that the hallway was cast in shadow.  
  
He cleared his throat. "Yes...Meredith. I need to speak with you."  
  
She smiled--radiant, shy--not at all the coy smile of a tavern whore, he thought. "Of course, Sir. Come in."  
  
Aragorn crossed the threshold quickly, and took in the sights of her tiny chamber in one glance. Washtub, bed--and little else. He saw the water freshly puddled on the wooden floor near the tub. It was more than obvious that she'd been bathing, which did not surprise him, really. He knew that, in her place, he would have wanted to wash after lying with someone as travel-worn as he. And likely, this was a common tub, and she was the last at it. He realized then he may have interrupted the only peace this busy woman had gotten in this day. "I have not disturbed you?"  
  
"No, Sir." Again, the smile. And she looked at the floor first, and then up at him slyly, her green eyes shining. "I have been somewhat expecting you, Sir."  
  
*Was she so certain that I would fall again?* Aragorn thought angrily. Had she thought that, simply because she had offered, he would come sniffing after her like a stray mongrel after the butcher at day's end? He scowled as he turned that thought over in his mind, and then unearthed another: or, had she heard him weeping in his shame over Arwen? She was searching his eyes, the smile still upon her lips, but somehow more lascivious now than it had seemed a moment before. *No,* he decided silently, *She was expecting me only because she was paid for--nothing more.*  
  
Determined to show her that he had come for no such reason, he wasted no time in coming to the point. He looked directly into the emerald pools of her eyes and said, "I have come to ask what it is you really want of me, and why you sought me out tonight."  
  
Her cheeks reddened and she dropped her gaze. "Is it...is it not enough that you seemed lonely, Sir Strider? And that I have need of money?"  
  
He was silent. Perhaps he was being unreasonable after all. Perhaps the rumors of unrest in Mordor had set him on edge so that he saw spies behind every tree...and in every barmaid who sought the coin of a man in obvious need of a tussle. He started to speak to her again, but found that she was still staring intently at his feet. He reached down and took her chin gently in his calloused hand, bringing her face up again so that he could meet her gaze.  
  
"Most women who seek the company of strange men for money are more than eager to leave when their services have been rendered," he said simply, quietly--not, he hoped, admonishing or interrogating her, but clearly questioning her earlier behavior. If she had another motive for wishing to linger in his company, perhaps she'd share it now.  
  
Her lip quivered then, and her lovely green eyes filled with tears. "I am sorry, sir," she blurted out. "I do not know you, Sir...and am sure you wish to know no more of the likes of me than is necessary. But, you...you have a trustworthy demeanor...an honest face. I cannot lie to you. I was...directed to watch for news of strangers, especially hobbits...and I was told you might know something, being a friend of that wizard...." She stepped back, pulling her chin out of his hand, and looked away again.  
  
"Who told you to do this?" Aragorn asked urgently. She made no reply. He took her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. "*Who is your master*?"  
  
"He'll...kill me!" she sobbed, obviously miserable.   
  
Aragorn reached back and closed the door to her chamber, still firmly grasping her arm with one calloused hand. He then searched her face, scanning for signs of a whore's deception, but saw nothing in those liquid green eyes except fear--fear of being harmed by her as-yet-unnamed employer. And then, a more immediate fear of the Ranger himself.  
  
"I will not let that happen," he said, trying to calm her though his own calmness, which he retained in spite of this new and disturbing revelation. "Who?"  
  
"B-Bill Ferny," she blubbered.   
  
Bill Ferny...Aragorn searched his memory and eventually called up an image of a wiry man with a sly, narrow face. He had an idea that the man ran a stable or some such thing at the edge of town. It seemed that this Bill Ferny would bear investigating. But first he must find a way to help this girl--and a girl was what she seemed now, for she looked very young and very frightened.  
  
"No man of the likes of Bill Ferny will harm you, of that I give you my word," he said. He released her arm.  
  
"But...if he finds I've not done...my duty--how will I live?" A tendril of her dark red hair had slipped from the braid and was sticking to her wet cheek. "I have almost no money."  
  
"Have you no family you can run to?" the Ranger asked, pushing the slip of hair behind her ear.  
  
"None, Sir. I am Meredith only, now, as my family stripped my surname from me when they put me out." She stood so close as to almost be leaning against him, but it was not the same sort of leaning she had done earlier in the evening, and he bent his arm to her to offer her the support she seemed to need.  
  
She relaxed gratefully and rested her head against his shoulder for a moment. He could feel the dampness of her shoulders through her thin nightshift, and breathed in a scent of roses even stronger than he had smelled earlier in the evening. To feel her in his arms, trusting him, made a constraint snap in his heart, releasing an emotion which he usually kept carefully hidden away, reserved only for...only for Arwen.  
  
But then she stepped away from him, turned and rummaged underneath the thin mattress on her bed. She drew out a coin--perhaps the same one he had given to her earlier in the evening--and held it out to him. "Please--I beg you--take this back. I have not earned it."  
  
He closed her fingers over the coin and shook his head. "No," he said softly, trying to hide his dissatisfaction with himself. Still, in his ears, his distaste sounded plain. "You gave me what I paid for."  
  
She blushed at that, but straightened her back proudly and held out the coin again. "I would not feel right in keeping it, Sir. I was deceiving you. This way I can tell Bill Ferny that you did not hire me."  
  
"That will not do. I think everyone in the taproom knows that I did hire you." *And that was not very discreet on my part, either*, he added silently to himself, realizing the danger into which he had placed both Meredith and himself.  
  
He looked around then and spied the tub in the corner. An idea came into his mind.  
  
"An exchange, then?" he continued, gesturing to the tub. "You can keep the coin as payment--for use of your tub." He grinned, running his hand through hair that had gone stringy and tangled from lack of a washing. "Elbereth knows, I certainly could use it!"  
  
"It's not my tub, Sir. And I'm the last of us who live here to use it this evening. The water's not...the cleanest it could be."  
  
Aragorn couldn't help but smile at that. "Neither am I," he chuckled. "I think any water would improve the state I'm in now, don't you?"  
  
She giggled a little--a good sign, he thought. "By all means, Sir Strider," she said with a low bow, her arm outstretched to the basin.  
  
He chuckled again. When she was not plying her trade or nervous with fear, she harbored a decent sense of humor. "You need not call me 'Sir'--just 'Strider' will do fine. That is what everyone else calls me, here."  
  
He leaned against the wall to pull off his boots, then began to loosen his trousers for the second time that evening. Realizing what he was about to do, Meredith hurriedly turned her back. Strider's lips twitched at her sudden modesty--she had shown no such reluctance to see him naked an hour ago. He reactions continued to puzzle and delight him as the evening progressed. He pulled off his remaining clothing and settled into the still-warm bathwater. 


	4. Chapter 4

A RANGER'S TEMPTATION, Chapter 4  
  
by Gypsie Rose (gypsierose3000@yahoo.com)  
  
The soapy, slightly scented water felt good to Aragorn as he immersed himself to the neck in its cloudy depths, and then dunked his head under briefly. When he surfaced again and settled back against the tub's edge, his arms resting casually on its sides, he found that Meredith had turned around, and was now watching him with a look both oddly innocent and hopeful. He smiled warmly.  
  
"Thank you for this," he said, hoping his genuine gratitude rang clear in his voice. With the elves, he had been accustomed to bathe frequently, but his life as a Ranger now made it difficult. He had grown used to going without bathing, and did not mind its absence; however, it still felt good when he was able to have a bath, even if he was not the first to use the water.  
  
He took up the bar of soap and prepared to wash his hair. A soft touch on his shoulder made him start, and he looked around to see Meredith standing behind him.  
  
"Shall I wash your back for you?" she asked.   
  
Her words were plainly spoken; she seemed to want very much to do the Ranger this small service, and he was inclined to let her have her way. Still, though, there was the matter of Bill Ferny in the deep recesses of Aragorn's mind. He sighed--imperceptibly, he hoped--and decided the girl meant well.  
  
After a short pause, he said, "Certainly," and leaned forward somewhat in the tub.  
  
He could feel her behind him, sense her presence long before he felt the gentle press of her hands on his wet skin. He felt her move the cloth she held in slow, gentle circles along the tense muscles of his back, and closed his eyes, willing himself to relax and enjoy the bath. And with his eyes closed, the room around him faded away, replaced by a fantasy mixed with memory, of an elaborate chamber in Rivendell, of long elven fingers working a cloth across his back--no, rubbing his shoulders directly--and of Arwen's delicate scent. He drew a sharp intake of breath at the sudden rush of emotion swelling within him.  
  
Aragorn's brief reverie was broken when he heard Meredith take up the bar of soap, dip it into the water and lather her hands well. He felt her rub the soap into his hair with firm but gentle strokes, her hands seeming almost to caress his head. She was good at this, he conceded. But still, she was not Arwen. And yet, though the Ranger missed his betrothed, he found this woman's presence, disturbingly, a comfort. He realized that, strangely, he felt nearer to her now than he had when the two of them had shared a bed.  
  
Without opening his eyes, he asked her softly, "Meredith...how did you come to be here? Why did your family disown you?"  
  
He heard her drop the bar of soap into the water abruptly, felt her fingers cease their motions through his hair. He opened his eyes and leaned his head back, craning to find her face, to see her reaction to what he'd asked played out therein.  
  
Even upside-down, he could see the reaction was not a favorable one. She had a soapy hand pressed to her lips, and her pale cheeks had gone crimson with emotion. Aragorn squirmed around in the tub, until he was somewhat facing her, and took her trembling hand from her mouth, pressing it between his own.  
  
"I am sorry if my question caused you pain," he said gently. He searched her emerald eyes, now liquid with brimming tears.  
  
"No, Sir--I mean, Strider. I shall tell you, as you've asked. Not more than six months ago now, I had the love of a young lord--not a prince or anything, mind you, but still the son of a man of a good family--a better one than mine. My parents encouraged our courtship, as it would've improved our social standing somewhat. And oh--I did love him!"  
  
Aragorn saw how her vision unfocused with memory, how her features glowed with a forgotten fondness for the boy she'd loved. He smiled at her, knowing full well she was too caught in her own reverie to notice.  
  
"I did love him, and he was handsome and good to me. He gave me many fine gifts and wrote me little poems and did all the things a good man should do for his lady." Her forest eyes grew dark then, as if enveloped in the clouds of an oncoming storm.  
  
"And then he took from me the one gift that he had no right to take--that he would've gotten anyway, when we were wed."  
  
Aragorn's smile turned to an indignant scowl. "He raped you?"  
  
Again, her pale flesh burned with scarlet heat. "Well...not exactly. I loved him, you see. And so, when he begged of me to...lie with him, I...." She dropped her head to her chest.  
  
"And your family discovered this?" he finished for her, as she appeared unwilling to continue.  
  
"He fought bitterly with his father over me, but his father claimed me spoiled, and broke off the marriage negotiations," she said finally after heaving a great sigh. "And my family, seeing no gain in keeping a ruined daughter, put me out on the streets. I've lived hand-to-mouth, mostly, until Mr. Butterbur and then Mr. Ferny offered me employment."  
  
It was an old, familiar story--one that had been played out countless times and had never left anything but broken hearts and broken lives in its wake. Coming from a comfortable home, she probably had few skills that would be useful for earning a living, Aragorn reflected. It was not surprising that she had ended up as she had.  
  
She seemed to pull her thoughts back to the present place and time, shaking her head slightly. "Now then, let me finish with your hair," she said briskly, bending over to fish the soap out of the buttom of the tub. The water was deep enough that she had to plunge her arm in almost to the shoulder in order to reach it. Aragorn felt her questing hand brushing against his thigh, and he hurriedly retrieved the soap himself, handing it to her. He did not wish to travel that road again--not tonight. Or at least, he reflected, in his heart he did not wish it. Before he turned away, she straightened up again, a wet spot spreading across the bodice of her nightshift where it had touched the water, and began once again to lather her hands.  
  
"I could wash my own hair?" Aragorn suggested gently, hoping that, to Meredith, it would sound more like a command than the question it had been as it slipped from his lips.  
  
"Not at all. You have paid good coin for a bath, and it is my duty to see that you have every service." She said it not playfully, but seriously, as a girl accustomed to doing as she was bidden.  
  
He smiled warily. "I suppose I cannot argue with that."   
  
Aragorn closed his eyes and settled back against the tub. As she again ran her fingers through his longish dark hair, he pondered the story she had told him, and her insistance on servitude. He was sorry to see it, really; Meredith was comely and resourceful, and she seemed intelligent as well, though her actions were clouded by fear of reprisal from the men for whom she worked--whether as a long-term employee or simply for the evening. He wondered to himself what kind of woman she would be, if that fear were removed. If, perhaps, she would even have the spirit of an elf princess, if the circumstances had been different...  
  
Her fingers had slipped from his hair to his shoulders, and she now eased the tension from him with a deft kneading motion that she seemed quite accomplished at performing. Aragorn let a soft moan escape his lips, thoroughly enjoying the comforts Meredith was providing for him, and shuddering at how like they were to another memory of another time. He felt her hands circle down his chest, felt her breath in his ear as she leaned into him further, sliding her hands from his chest to graze his abdomen, and from there to his raised knee and thigh. He trembled a bit from her pleasurable touch, nearly forgetting his earlier thoughts on her need to serve--until her hand slipped down his thigh to his groin.  
  
Aragorn's eyes flew open. *Elbereth! The girl is persistant!* he thought, trying hard to ignore her ministrations. Finally--though, to his shame, somewhat reluctantly--he grabbed her wrist, gently but firmly, and pulled her hand away.  
  
"But...Strider...," she said, her voice small. "I only wish to please y--"  
  
"Let me...," Aragorn began, but his sentence ended there, as he was unsure how to finish it. A part of him wanted this girl to know happiness; he wanted her to have better that Bill Ferny and random men in an inn. And a part of him--a deeper, more primal part of him--simply wanted her. He released her wrist and stood, soapy water dripping from his exquisitely muscled form.  
  
Meredith eyes widened for a moment, as he watched her watching him--the curling dark hair of his narrow, but well-defined, chest trailing onto the tight abdominals of his stomach, his arms and legs and body marred here and there with thin white scars where he'd been wounded in fights long since over, and then the trail of hair continuing its dark passage beyond his navel, downward, to where her gaze had rested. He followed her eyes as she surveyed him, and understood in an instant both his own thoughts, and hers.  
  
"I would like to borrow your towel, as well," he said evenly, his jaw set. He knew he could not lead her, knew in his mind and his heart that it was wrong to lead her, that it wronged Meredith and Arwen and his own sense of honor and propriety. And still, it seemed like an agonizingly long time before she took up the thin towel and thrust it out to him.  
  
"I am sorry it is not dry," she said, though she didn't seem to be apologizing, quite...  
  
She continued to watch him, unnervingly, as he rubbed the towel down his lean, muscled legs. At first he could not read the expression on her face, but then he realized that it was a wistful longing. Perhaps she wanted to lie with him again, even if not for coin. And all her life, men had told her what she could and could not have. He wanted to give her the chance to have what she wanted without begging permission for it. And yet, he knew--knew beyond knowing--that this was impossible. He could not give her this.  
  
His body, however, seemed in disagreement. He covered his shameful state with the towel, and cursed his mortal's weakness.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED 


	5. Chapter 5

A RANGER'S TEMPTATION, Chapter 5  
  
by Gypsie Rose (gypsierose3000@yahoo.com)  
  
Aragorn felt Meredith's gaze upon him, even after he pressed his eyelids tightly together. He tried to will away his body's needs, and for his trouble he was rewarded--or punished--with a renewed and unignorable desire. Silently, he cursed the inadequacy of the towel he held over his shame, he cursed his body's involuntary reaction to the woman standing before him. And, most deeply of all, he cursed himself, for using the excuse of sought-after information to lead him into a situation against which his resolve could not stand.  
  
The girl approached him tentatively. "Strider? Do you...desire me to...?" She reached a hand for the towel, even as her green eyes searched his for something--permission, perhaps? He didn't know, nor, at this point, did he particularly wish to.  
  
He realized then that his brazen nakedness must seem only as another command to her--a command to please him, to satisfy his needs before her own. And this was not what he wanted her to feel, even if she was eager to obey. Certainly, it was not what he wanted to feel *himself*. And yet, he could neither compel himself away from her, away from here, where temptation lay. And so, he remained perfectly still, as a deer who smells the hunter but knows not from what direction the arrow will come.  
  
She walked to him, encircling him in her soft arms, pressing the length of her body against his. He could feel the damp gauze of her gown against his bare skin; the sensation quickened the roaring blood within him. How his body craved this! Arwen or no, proper or not, his flesh longed for another union, here and now.  
  
The ache in his groin, however, was nearly equal to that in his heart. Arwen Evenstar had sworn her love to him--enough, she'd told him long ago, to give up her immortal life to walk the rest of her days by his side. That was no light-hearted promise, and though she had not consummated it of yet, Aragorn had no doubts that Arwen would be anything but a maiden of her word.  
  
Meredith's hands snaked along the span of his back, a pleasurable grazing, stoking the fires already kindled within him. He shuddered and forced his gaze to her face, if only to remind himself that she was not his love--not Arwen. Her eyes, wide and green, shone with an appreciation and desire of her own. She blinked, her long, dark lashes fluttering.  
  
"By Elbereth, you are quite beautiful," he whispered, forgetting himself. And then, when he saw the color come into her cheeks, it occurred to the Ranger that that statement had been altogether the wrong thing to say.  
  
She leaned up into him, placing her lips firmly on his, and snatching away the towel he'd already nearly dropped at the same time. She had him in what was--from her perspective, at least--a passionate kiss, and it surprised Aragorn enough that he was unable to react for just the few seconds she needed to reach between his thighs and take him him her hand.  
  
His flesh screamed at him, howled at him, demanded in every pulse of blood at his temples that he let her continue, that he relinquish control and allow her to finish what she had so eagerly begun. But in his mind, behind his eyelids, closed against the shameful onslaught, he had an image of the deep blue eyes of Arwen, pledging her love--and her life--to him.  
  
Aragorn broke the kiss with some effort, grabbing Meredith by the shoulders and lifting her away from his person with some force. When she was at arm's length, and he could no longer feel the warming friction of her body against his, he knitted his brow and shook his head slightly, hoping she understood what he could not find the words to express.  
  
"I--" she began, but he silenced her by brushing his thumb across her lips.  
  
"Please," he began hoarsely, finding his voice again, "Please do not tempt me. I cannot afford it, Meredith."  
  
Misunderstanding, she replied, "I...did not wish to charge you further, Strider. It's only...you were so kind, and I thought--"  
  
"And I did not!" He could hear the frustration clearly in his own voice, and half-worried about frightening Meredith again before he resolved that, frightened or not, these were words she had to know and understand. "I did not think, Meredith, when I called you to me. I teased myself with the promise that it was only to discover your interest in my affairs, that it was nothing more that the satisfying of my curiousity, but I let it go too far!" He searched her face, hoping beyond hope that she would understand and acknowledge his desperation. "I cannot let this continue!"  
  
Her lower lip quivered, and her liquid eyes brimmed with tears. "But...but what did I do wrong?"  
  
"You did nothing wrong!" Even as he shouted it, Aragorn knew it sounded like an admonition.  
  
"Then...why?" she sobbed. "Why do you not wish me--?"  
  
Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut--how they burned suddenly, as if seared by smoke. "I am betrothed!" he blurted finally, bitterly.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: As always, thanks to those who have been reading and reviewing. Mikhal, thanks for the suggestion about other sites to post the original. We'll think about it, although the original version would take some work to make it presentable--it was really nowhere near as polished as this version! 


	6. Chapter 6

A RANGER'S TEMPTATION, Chapter 6  
  
by Gypsie Rose (gypsierose3000@yahoo.com)  
  
Aragorn wasn't sure what he expected Meredith's reaction to be--shock? Revulsion? Certainly, revulsion and loathing were what he felt for himself after rethinking his course of action for the evening. Under most circumstances, the Ranger prided himself on his ability to keep a cool and level head when faced with even the most pressing situations. But when faced with something as simple as his own need, he had lost all control. And, he thought as he let his head fall slightly to his chest, all sense.  
  
Aragorn certainly did not expect from Meredith the look she met him with--the same wide-eyed, expectant, tearstained expression she'd had earlier, as if waiting to hear the rest of his tale.  
  
"Did you not hear me?" he shouted again through clenched teeth. "I have been promised to another woman for many years now!"  
  
"So are many of the men who come to me," Meredith replied, her voice soft and even.  
  
He was surprised at her calmness in the face of his rage, and its effect was somewhat disarming, knocking his anger off-kilter. He shook his head, trying desperately to clear it. "Does that mean nothing to you? That these men would...shame their lovers so?"  
  
As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized how ludicrous they sounded. Why should it matter to her, when it had not mattered to him enough to keep her from his bed? He waited for her to upbraid him for his hypocrisy, but she was looking defeated again, her shoulders bowing as she answered listlessly: "Why shouldn't they come? It's their own choice. If my young man had gone to a whore when he felt the need, instead of asking me to lie with him, I would be preparing for my wedding day now instead of...." Her voice trailed off.  
  
Aragorn blinked in astonishment. "You cannot mean that. Could you have been happy, knowing that he had been untrue?"  
  
Meredith sat on the bed, away from him, tears spilling from her eyes. "It would have pained me very much," she admitted.  
  
The Ranger retrieved his clothing from where he had dropped it near the tub, and silently began to dress again. He could not meet Meredith's eyes. He did not wish to see there the pain that would be mirrored in Arwen's, if his elf-maid were to ever discover his lack of faith, his broken promise.  
  
Finally, Meredith spoke again, with a touch of bitterness he had not heard from her before. "Is it truly so hard for men to wait?"  
  
Furious, he jerked his head up. "You have no idea!" he responded forcefully, now taking care to keep his voice low, as if it mattered. "My heart is hers--it can belong to no other. But...my body cannot always be governed by that decision."  
  
Oh, how bitterly true that was! Aragorn recalled other taverns, other nights spent rutting whores in a desperate attempt to relieve his own mortal lust, excused as only physical weakness, as only a satisfaction of needs of the flesh while his spirit, his soul, imagined it was Arwen with whom he lay. There had never been any toward whom he'd felt the tenderness he felt toward Meredith...but there had been many, and that was reason enough to grieve at his own stupidity.  
  
"You love her, Strider?"   
  
Aragorn lifted his gaze to meet Meredith's. Her green eyes searched his face desperately, though she seemed not reproachful, nor desirous, but eager to hear him speak true.  
  
His fists clenched reflexively. "I do," he said finally. "More than my own life." And it *was* true, he knew. What he felt for Arwen Evenstar transcended physical need--it was a need in his heart, his core, his soul. Without Arwen--even a distant and unattainable Arwen--he knew he would be lost. Life would not be worth living, then.  
  
And lying in whores' beds was how he'd chosen to show his devotion. He clenched his jaw, speaking through his teeth. "And she deserves better than I can give her--than I prove through my own actions, through my weak will." Aragorn was aware that his words sounded hollow, yet he knew that he meant them with all his heart.  
  
There was a long silence before either of them spoke again. She broke it, musing, "Still, you are gentler than most. At heart, anyhow."  
  
In spite of himself, Aragorn nearly blushed at her remark, deeply ashamed at being praised for an action he should never have commited. But to this unfortunate girl, his small kindness had meant something. He could not think of how to respond, and so simply stammered, "What?"  
  
"This is the first time since...since I came here that a man has desired of me more than...what is expected. The first time any man wished to know more of me than what I presented to him." Now it was Meredith's turn to blush. "I have told no other my story, Strider--none have asked it. If nothing else, that shows you are of a different mettle than most. This evening, ultimately, was a pleasure, not a duty. I am sorry if you regret it, but I do not."  
  
This time, Aragorn definitely felt the heat rising along his neck and across his stubbled cheeks. The corners of his mouth turned up in a grim little smile. "It is not the company that I regret--only the circumstances."  
  
Meredith sighed deeply. "Aye. I regret those as well." Her eyes remained focused on the floor, hidden by her thick auburn lashes. "I am sorry now that I tried to deceive you. You did not deserve that payment for your kindness."  
  
Aragorn suddenly remembered something she had said to him earlier--something he had deemed important at the time, but had let slip away when he had become distracted. He now looked to her in earnest. "Your employer--what was his name again?"  
  
"You mean the man who asked me to watch for information? Bill Ferny...." Remembrance of the danger of the situation descended on them both.  
  
Aragorn ran a hand through his still-damp hair and began to pace as he thought aloud. "Ferny will know that I hired you for tonight, and in the morning he will want to know what you learned."  
  
"I could tell him that you had no information...."  
  
"Do you think he will believe that? And what if he tries to beat it out of you?" Meredith was silent, her eyes wide. Aragorn stepped to her at the bed, putting a strong hand on her shoulder, in an attempt to give her some small comfort. "I promised I would keep you from harm, and I will."  
  
She blinked at him in apparent wonderment. "H--how?"  
  
"I have coin enough to get you out of town safely, though the roads are dangerous for a woman alone--"  
  
"No more dangerous, certainly, than staying here in Ferny's employ," she interrupted.  
  
He nodded, amazed equally with her sudden courage and her quick thought. "Well, I have coin enough, at any rate. You could purchase a horse and...but there's no excuse to make to Ferny, and he'd follow you." Aragorn scowled, pounding his fist into his hand, utterly unable to concoct a solution to the problem.  
  
They both sank into thought for a moment, and then Meredith suddenly gave a low chuckle. "I think I have it," she said, her eyes sparkling with sudden mischief. "I saw the kitchenmaid before you came back here, so she knows I left your room early. If anyone heard us talking here, they will think I had another customer tonight. What if I leave a note saying I left with him?"  
  
Aragorn smiled broadly at Meredith's ingenuity. Her former suitor and his family had missed a chance at a worthy acquisition, surely. "An excellent idea. You're lettered, then?"  
  
She positively beamed, the color pouring into her cheeks. "Aye. My family expected that I would marry a merchant. They saw to it that I could read any contract he might be presented with, so that I could be a helpmate to him in his business, too." She gazed up at him, suddenly serious. "Thank you, Strider."  
  
"There's no need to thank me. I've not done anything at all, really. You have thought of everything on your own." He paused, running his fingers through his hair with a sigh. "You're a remarkable woman, Meredith. Under other circumstances...." His voice trailed off into silence, broken only by his shallow, ragged breaths.  
  
Aragorn shook his head slightly. It would do no good to make the girl think on what could not be. It seemed that his every attempt to do something good for himself or for Meredith was spiralling into something he had not intended. *A fine king I am*, he thought wryly. *I cannot even govern my own life.*  
  
But he could at least see to it that Meredith was physically safe. "How soon can you be ready to leave?" he asked.  
  
"I can be ready in just a moment," she responded eagerly. "I have few worldly possessions that need packing."  
  
"I would see you out, but then your plan would be foiled if any should see us together this late," Aragorn stated sternly. "'Tis best if I wait here until you are well away, and then slip back to my own room."  
  
She nodded, tossing the bedsheet aside and hurriedly slipping her common frock on over her shift. "I shall leave the note on my bed. Sally's sure to find it in the morning."  
  
*************************  
  
The next evening, Aragorn sat once again in the taproom at the Prancing Pony as an autumn rain beat heavily down on the roof. He hoped that Meredith had found shelter from the rain somewhere. She had not told him where she was going; perhaps she did not know, herself. She said only that she intended to find a place where no one knew her and begin again, to find another way of earning a living. He hoped she would find it.  
  
Barliman Butterbur himself, slightly harried, was serving the customers tonight. The entire staff had been in an uproar since breakfast-time, and all seemed to have accepted Meredith's note as the truth. Aragorn had even overheard the boot-boy claiming importantly to have seen a man on a white horse waiting outside the inn before dawn that day.  
  
"And why were *you* up at that hour?" asked the scullery-maid, whom Aragorn could now identify as Sally.  
  
"I had to take a leak," the boy answered without missing a beat. "And there he was--handsome as a prince he was, and he seemed to be waiting for someone."  
  
Aragorn chuckled inwardly at the successful conclusion to the scheme. But somehow he felt an aching regret too, and a sense that he had done as much harm as good in the matter. Had he really helped Meredith? He had gotten her out of danger, but then he had also brought the danger upon her through his own weakness. He had tried to be kind to her, but what good was it to give her one moment of tenderness when he could not offer her more than that? And of course, that attempt at kindness had come at the price of betraying the one he held dearest in the world.  
  
If only he'd held fast to his promises to Arwen--in body as well as in spirit! To think that it had taken the simple logical goodness of a tavern girl to make him realize what he'd risked losing with each time he strayed.  
  
The storm raged on outside the inn, the rain running in dreary, dark rivulets down the mullioned panes of glass. Aragorn longed for the day when he could return to Rivendell, to his Arwen; he hoped, he prayed it would be soon.  
  
As if Elbereth herself had been listening, the door swung open, and four dripping hobbits tumbled in. 


End file.
